


Oxy

by Dusty_Forgotten



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Overdosing, Realistic, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5660407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dusty_Forgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things get steadily better, then consistently worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Now with [soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLpdUfmRv8UmOlLgpfP7Jt_JMmVzbu12x6). Hope you like Ed Sheeran.

Your average drug dealer is not a black man in a rastafarian knit beanie growing pot in his closet, nor is he an illegal Mexican immigrant slinging cocaine with a gun in his waistband. Not in Ohio, anyway. That goth kid a little too into Marilyn Manson... yes, probably does drugs- but so does your Meijer cashier, and your bank manager. There’s nothing else  _ to _ do.

Castiel is an afterschool stoner; once he finishes homework, he may pack a little into his bubbler to play Mario Kart. Do you think he buys his pot from a part-time pimp? His contact was the eighteen-year-old daughter of a corn farmer he went to high school with, little redhead, really into computers. Went away to college recently, but she’d always been reliable, and disclosed to Castiel the name of her supplier.

“His number changes all the time,” she’d said, reaching into her Lord of the Rings backpack, “but here’s his address. If the door’s open, just go right in.”

Cas wasn’t quite so presumptive, so he did knock. After standing around for ten minutes on the porch, he worried the suburban retirees this drug den was situated in the middle of were growing suspicious, and tried the door. It was open.

“Are you cooking this?” one man with his back to Castiel asked, placing what appeared to be a _literal brick_ _of cocaine_ on a scale.

Castiel just walked into something that could get him capped.  _ Capped, isn’t that what gangbangers call it? _ He was going to be murdered in a suburb in Ohio, either by the guy in the suit, or...  _ Is that the car detailing guy? _

“You know me, crack and mud...” the man who was most _definitely_ the car detailing guy mused, and snorted some off the back of his hand. _Does he do lines at work?_ _Are there traces of coke in my car?_

“A have-not’s one-stop shop.” He handed- what was his name, Al?- the brick, who cackled, tucking it into an inside pocket, next to baggies of powder with a more grey tone. “I’d quite like to know what I’m handing out- before you cut it with talcum and baking soda, that is.” suit guy needled.

“You wound me,” he mumbled, “talcum was the one time.”

That was about the time Castiel realized he may end up in Witness Protection for this. He felt for the door, and quietly nudged it open... Of course, he tripped on the door jam.

The two men turned to look at him, and they both just sort of... stared, for a while. Castiel tried to remember the words to Hail Mary.

Ala-something finally spoke. “You don’t do heroin, perchance?”

“Uh...” Castiel glanced between them, and thought fondly of the door. “No?”

Car detailer clucked his tongue. “Shame.” He turned to the other, who didn’t appear particularly put-off, either. “If I find a vein, I’ll let you know.”

“Or you could quit collapsing them in the first place.” The dealer handed him another brick, and turned his attention to Castiel. “What are you looking for, love?”

He looked distinctly like he belonged in an office building in inner Columbus, not slinging coke out in bumfuck nowhere. Cas ignored the way the word crawled down his spine. “Uh, just weed.”

“Any particular strain?” he asked, leading the way into a different room.

Castiel kept his eyes on Al, who gave him a completely un-reassuring smile. He practically ran after the dealer. “S-something more on the indica end? If that’s okay?”

He was stood by the kitchen window, cracking open a pill bottle. He gave Cas a much less creepy smile. “Thank you for being easy. Sativas are a pain.”

Noting the potted herbs on the windowsill, Castiel ventured, “Are you a grower?”

The man popped two pills, washed them down with water, and dropped the cup in the sink, waving him over. Cas thought it a bit odd that he chewed them, but ignored it in favour of what was being gestured to: a greenhouse that took up more than half the backyard (privacy fenced, woods on two sides and a large flowering bush along the third). “Best women in my life.”

Castiel admired the pot plants for a moment, before admitting, “What?”

The dealer smiled in what seemed like either amusement or pity, and stretched out a hand.  “Crowley. And you are?”

He grasped it, and if Crowley noticed how cold his hand was, he didn’t mention it. “Castiel.”

“Well, darling, I look forward to introducing you to all my available strains, but I have a feeling Alastair is ripping the leaves off my houseplants. AL!”

_ Okay _ , Castiel thought as Crowley stomped into the front room,  _ this is not quite what I expected. _ Sure, he dealt in hardcore drugs, but there was the most gorgeous African violet on the counter... Next to a prescription bottle. 

He didn’t want to snoop- but it was in plain view, and if that’s enough for the police... The biggest font of the bottle was the “80”, a C with two vertical lines inside of it- and his brain took a second to consider if this word was one he knew-  _ OxyContin. _

Nope. Not a clue.

He turned his attention back to the violet. God, he was almost inclined to believe it was plastic, with how perfect it was- but he wasn’t about to touch one of Crowley’s houseplants to find out.

“Right,” Crowley said, re-entering the room and giving Cas a heart attack in the process, “indica, yeah?”

Cas managed to snap his mouth shut and give a half-passable smile. “Correct.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll break you into the business yet.” He got on his knees (in a  _ suit _ \- why the hell was he wearing a suit, anyway?) and opened one of the lower cabinets. He cracked open a mason jar, and extended it toward Castiel. “Get a whiff of that.”

He tried very hard not to flinch, but his face gave it away. Crowley chuckled. “I take it you’re partial to the sweeter varieties?”

He nodded, self-consciously. Crowley waved it off, and put the jar away. “Not a problem, it’s why I’ve got a dozen different strains.” He pulled two out, and held each up to the light. “Here. See which one you like.” He handed one to Cas, and the other went on the floor, so Cas sat down next to him.

The first jar had kind of... just a weed smell to it, really. A lot better than the last one Crowley handed him; he didn’t know pot came that acrid. “I think I’ve had this before.”

“Northern Lights. Charlie moved a lot of it.”

“That’s where I got it.” He left the jar open, fully expecting to buy an eighth ounce to last him out the month, and popped the rubber seal on the last. He suddenly understood why people bought cannabis-flavoured soft drinks. “Oh my God.”

“That the stuff?”

“I could eat this.”

“I’d rather you smoke it.” Crowley joked, returning the Northern Lights and removing a packet and tin from the cabinet before closing it.

“That would be ideal, yes.” What turned out to be in the packet was cigarette paper, and the tin was a grinder. Castiel got a sudden wave of anxiety as Crowley selected a bud. “Wait, now?”

“Common practice to sample the product before you buy. At my level, anyway.”

It occurred to Castiel that he was very far from Crowley’s level, that he was twenty years old, in a strange middle-aged man’s home- a man who was currently grinding up weed.  _ Am I about to be that worst-case scenario D.A.R.E. warned me about? _

“Would you care to roll, or should I?”

Castiel had only ever seen joints passed around at parties, and he was never asked to join the stoner circle; his experience with cannabis consisted of his older brother’s bong, and a bubbler that brother bought him on his eighteenth birthday. “I’ll, uh, leave it to the expert.”

Cas knew he was out of his league- and Crowley knew it too; he could see it in the attempt at a reassuring smile that looked a lot more like a consolatory wink. It was only proven when Crowley perfectly dispersed the pot, rolled and licked in a fluid motion, and it came out perfectly straight, with just enough space at the end for a little roll of cardstock-  _ that’s called a roach, right? That sounds gross. _ He handed the joint to Cas, who held it a bit awkwardly, having never smoked a cigarette- marijuana or tobacco- and was surprised by the silver flash of a Zippo flicking open. 

Yeah: a whole different league from white kids with dreads and empty Bics. Crowley held the flame to the tip, and it came alive. A cigarette glows when it lights- he’d seen that on TV, at the least- the joint burned up, blazed like fireflies and chaser lights.

“I know it’s gorgeous,” Crowley said, eyebrow up like he was trying not to judge him (and was totally judging him), “but that’s valuable product.”

Cas grinned a nervous apology, held the cardstock end to his lips- and pulled it away again. He took a deep breath, let it out, held up the joint- and pulled it away. He could hear Crowley chuckling. “Don’t laugh!”

“Trust me, darling, I’m  _ really _ trying.”

He was; he could see it in the glaze of his eyes without a hit. “I’m used to water pipes, okay?”

“What, afraid you’re going to spontaneously forget how to breathe?”

“I’m not scared!” Cas defended, immediately giving away that he was very scared.

Crowley rolled his eyes, and snatched the joint. Cas pulled his knees up to his chest, and looked off. Charlie moving away was a sign; he should quit before he ended up a methhead.  _ Isn’t that what the lion warned me about? Gateway drugs? _

“Look,” the dealer said, and Castiel paid very close attention (worn hands, clean nails, scruff on his jaw, empathy in his eyes), “I usually don’t do this, but I think you could use the pointers.” Cas nodded sheepishly. “Right. Long exhale,” which Crowley did, and Castiel found himself copying, “in from the lungs.” They both did, and the ember sparked fervently. Crowley held his breath, counting off to four on his fingers before white smoke spilled out of his mouth. “Simple.”

“Yeah...” He breathed out, brought the joint to his lips, breathed in- and hacked for fourteen seconds- which, incidentally, was how long it took for Crowley to get stoned out of his mind.

Crowley just fell backwards, stretching out on the laminate floor, and cackled. “You’re not helping!” And pointing that out wasn’t helping to stop him, either. Cas sighed, and choked on smoke when he tried again.  “I feel you’re grossly exaggerating the potency of your product.”

“What, the product you can’t get down!?” he managed. “I’m not- it’s the Oxy! Chew two eighties and see if  _ you _ can keep it together.”

Cas stuck the joint in the other’s open mouth, and the look Crowley returned was one a parent might scold their child with in public, both knowing a congratulations was coming once they were alone. 

Castiel thought about the first time he bought his own bud; Gabriel programming Charlie’s number into his phone, a quick, sterile text exchange, and she was at his door in the hour. He didn’t mind going out for it, especially since the dealers are the ones at risk, but as nice as she was, and however much they’d chat about Tolkien when he smoked her out (which was fairly customary at their level, too) he could never imagine laughing like this. 

And he wasn’t even high yet.

Crowley let the smoke pour out his nose, and tapped ash to the floor. He handed it to Cas, and he took a drag. He kept it in, well as he could, which led to coughing through his nose- which was exponentially worse. He handed the joint off, as he wasn’t getting much use out of it.

“You don’t have asthma, do you?”

He shook his head (really the only form of communication he could swing at the moment). Something anti-smoking campaigns never tell you would have shied Castiel off any form of inhalation: it  _ burns _ . Maybe they assumed everyone would glean that from the word “ _ smoking _ ”, but that’s overestimating the intelligence of stoners. 

“Alright,” Crowley broke the silence, shifting onto his side, “here’s something else I don’t do.”

Cas was in the middle of a full-body yawn, like his insides decided to dust the lungs today, so he hoped a nod would suffice. Crowley took a hit, and then his hand was on Cas’s neck, and his face was significantly closer than it had been seconds ago, blowing smoke into his mouth. He almost forgot to breathe.

Castiel froze... for exactly a count of four, then white smoke billowed from his parted lips. He grinned in satisfaction, and the THC hit him almost as fast as the shotgun had, or a literal shotgun could. Then he was laying on the floor, and laughing, and the both of them were.

“Crowley.” Cas started, and  _ oh boy, it’s this again _ .

“Mm?” Crowley acknowledged, passing the joint.

Castiel sucked the smoke into his mouth, counted to two, and let it pour out with a gentle cough. “This is some good stuff.”

“Yeah,” the grower agreed, taking a drag, “I know. It’s, uh... Fuck, what’s it called?”

“You’re asking me?”

He sat up, groaning and bones creaking the whole way. He turned over the jar. “Purple Kush, that’s it.”

“Good kush, is what it is.”

“I won’t deny that.” He took a hit and handed it back, put one hand on the countertop, like leverage to get up, but he didn’t follow through. “Before I get couchlocked, how much are you looking for?”

“Uh... Quarter?”

“Always good to start small, yeah. In the Purple, that’s...” He looked up, doing mental math. “Fuck, I hate the Imperial system.”

“Down with capitalism.” Cas toasted in marijuana.

“Hear, hear...” he muttered. “That’s, uh... grand even.”

Castiel gagged on smoke. He dropped the cigarette, coughing. Crowley beat on his back for him. He eventually choked the word, “ _ What!? _ ”

“Charlie sells at a markup, of course. It’s basic business. Cut the middleman, cut the cost.”

He wiped his mouth of spittle, and rolled onto his stomach. “I meant a quarter  _ ounce _ .”

“Oh. Then what are you doing at wholesale?”

“I don’t know, ask Charlie!”

“She knows I only deal with-” The hand smacking his back paused in the air. “Unless...” It lighted down, and started smoothing circles into his shirt fabric. “So she’s still on about that...”

Cas didn’t move- partially in understanding he was out of his element, and partly because Crowley rubbing his back felt nice. He didn’t notice he was holding his breath until it was forced out by a slap on the back.

“Fifty for the quarter.”

“Done.” Castiel couldn’t agree fast enough to alleviate the awkwardness- even before he saw just how much of a markup Charlie had been supplying him at.

Cas passed the cash, and Crowley handed him a snack-size Ziploc.

All-in-all, everything turned out better than expected. He got his weed, anyway, and he’s pretty sure Crowley didn’t see his boner.


	2. Chapter 2

“There’s my favourite customer!” Crowley greeted as the aforementioned man entered the home. Cas was flattered, if not a bit concerned. “What is it today?”

“Just an eighth.”

“An eighth!” the dealer repeated. “An eighth ounce of indica! I swear, you’re the easiest I’ve ever had.”

Castiel followed him to the kitchen. “You may be more suited to street-level.”

“Are you kidding? I’m a businessman.” He didn’t seem affronted, though. Humourous, even.

Cas admired that the dealer washed his hands before handling product. “I was merely suggesting, if you prefer street-level dealings, you might find it more rewarding.”

“Yeah, if all my customers were like you. Around here, it’s all white kids with cornrows.”

He chuckled slightly, but couldn’t argue. Crowley selected small buds, but the best-looking ones in the jar. “What’re you laughing at? This is my life!”

“I find your life funny.”

Crowley looked at him, and seemed to consider the idea. He shrugged. “C’est la vie.”

“La vie.”

Crowley, though evidently tired, paused to smile at him. He went back to weighing. “How you been, love?”

“Fine. You?”

He made a low groan, then waved it off.

“Is something wrong?”

He shook his head, put a bit more on, and let the numbers settle. “Nothing that concerns you, darling.”

“I’m concerned.”

The man scooped the product into a baggie, sealed it, and weighed that as well. “Someone way back in my supply chain got busted, so everyone’s laying low- which means less product for me. Doesn’t affect you. That is, unless you’re thinking of trying blow.”

Unsure what his sexual habits had to do with it, he replied, “I have.”

Crowley cocked a bow. “Look at you, choir boy with a white moustache. Who’re you getting from?”

“...Dean Winchester?” He wondered why his dealer was so interested.

“Never heard of him. What’s he selling?”

“He’s not... selling, just happened to...”

“Ah, freebie from a friend?”

Castiel couldn’t have been more uncomfortable if Alastair were in the room. He rolled his shoulders, and nodded.

“How was it?” Crowley questioned, conversationally.

He choked a little. “I have no... unit of comparison. It was only the once?”

“No harm in that.” He stepped aside to let Cas see the number. It was in metric. He nodded in approval, for lack of mental math, and Crowley handed him the Ziploc. “Twenty-five.” he decided. Castiel counted out the cash. Thankfully, he was done being invasive: he’d moved on to advisory. “Good blow’s supposed to make your sinuses go numb, not burn- if they do, it’s cut with something.” 

He was wandering gradually out of the territory of sensical. “...Cut?”

“Yeah, hate to be a horror story, but-” and he tilted his head back, and scrunched his nose- “get a load of that.”

Castiel blinked at the drug dealer- and he was starting to understand why he was in this odd profession- but couldn’t help to see up his nose. Hard to miss the giant hole in his septum. “Dear Lord.”

“Bad powder, and lots of it.” He scrubbed the bottom of his nose with the back of his hand. “I’ve seen it cut with baking soda- halfway to freebase, that is- methamphetamine, the infamous baby laxatives.”

“Wait...” Castiel cut in, holding up a hand that he only then realized had cash in it. He offered it to Crowley, who flicked through the small bills (because Castiel liked exact change) and slid them into a pocket without breaking his expectant expression. Cas supposed Crowley couldn’t think him any more naive than their last encounter presented him. “What are we talking about?”

He blinked- twice. “COCAINE!”

Castiel retracted at the volume, and pictured his hair blasted back cartoonishly. He ran a hand through to set the locks imaginarily back in place. It alleviated both of their tensions. “Never reduce yourself to street-level.”

He let himself lean back against the counter, hands slipping into pockets. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Transaction concluded, Cas found he had very little left to say. He held up the baggie, as he took the first few steps backwards, then turned for the exit.

“Never do coke.” he mumbled. Castiel swiveled back around. “If you do, get it from me.”

He has no intention to dabble in drugs harder than cannabis. He has no intention of purchasing illicit substances from anyone but the man in front of him. Instead, he says, “Is my dealer giving me a PSA?”

“Just trying to keep you alive long enough to make me rich.” he grumbled, making it very clear he was hard-pressed to admit this.

No one was pressing.

“That will take an outrageous amount of time on eighth ounces.”

Nobody moved. “Then why am I doing it?”

Castiel smiled, gently; any more might disturb the man. “Do let me know when you find out.”

When confused, Crowley made no note of it. He supposed that was a trained reflex in his line of work. Cas rounded the wall, cutting off the kitchen from the rest of the house.

“Free weed.”

That was certainly worth investigating. He leaned back around the doorjamb.

Crowley was just against the counter, jar still open behind him, crumbs on the scale. He didn’t make eye contact. “Getting involved with a dealer means awful hours, rampant paranoia, and possible jail time...” He licked his lips, and looked his way, settled on the solar plexus, and then up. “...But the weed’s free.”

Cas displayed his measly eighth ounce. “Seems slanted in your favour.”

The dealer shrugged, like it was worth a try, and wiped his scale with the side of his hand.

Sure their relationship would be unaffected if he declined, Cas accepted. “I must really like you.”

Again, Crowley froze. Cas caught him smile, though.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

_ “Christ, Cas!” _

Castiel adjusted his collar in the mirror- no easy feat with a phone pressed to his shoulder. “I know.”

_ “A literal, actual, drug dealer! He’s gonna hook you on like, heroin.” _

His brows twitched together as he switched the phone to his other ear. “I doubt that’s an outcome either of us intend.”

_ “Well, don’t!” _ Gabriel huffed in his best older brother voice..  _ “...God, why aren’t  _ I  _ dating the dealer?” _

“It’s a fascinating turn of events for the both of us.”

_ “Are you sure this isn’t your saviour complex talking?” _

He paused in lacing his tie through half-formed knot. “...It probably is.”

_ “Well, at least you’re honest with yourself.” _ He pulled the knot tight, loosened it comfortably, and then untied it altogether and started over.  _ “What’s he like? Sugar daddy material?” _

He glared at the phone in the reflection- didn’t speak, but Gabe knew, if his giggle was any indication. “He mentioned that he used to do a lot of cocaine, but was reluctant to sample his own pot. Sexual sense of humour. Seems to like making people uncomfortable.”

_ “Sounds like my kind of guy...” _ There was a static sound as he flipped from one ridiculous position on the couch to another.  _ “Cas, what are you doing with my kind of guy?” _

He took the phone in hand, turning away from the mirror to stunt his perfectionism. “He’s nice, Gabriel. Compassionate. In a repressed way.”

_ “Oh yeah, welcome to your bad boy phase. Use a condom.” _

“Charlie seems to trust him.”

_ “Shit, why didn’t you say so? If she’s cool, I’m cool.” _

His phone buzzed tickling against his ear; Cas nearly dropped it. “That’s him. If I don’t text you by midnight, call the cops.”

_ “Eh, I give you ‘til three am.” _

“Gabriel.”

Incredibly put-upon, he sighed,  _ “Fine... One.” _

“Goodbye, Gabe.”

_ “Later, bro.” _

Castiel slipped the phone in his pocket, grabbed his keys, and locked the door before he left- then the deadbolt from outside. He hurried down the cement stairs, didn’t touch the rusted railing, and slowed his pace into the asphalt-cracked parking lot. He stood a moment, surveying parked cars: his neighbour’s minivan, her husband’s obnoxiously loud motorcycle he only rode right after Cas went to bed, the upstairs bachelor’s Jeep, his own Continental, and a Mercedes Wagon. 

Not what he expected.

The inside of the Wagon was nice enough; he was surprised to find there weren’t booster seats in the back, but the A/C worked. He looked to Crowley for some explanation on his choice of vehicle, who only said, “Don’t laugh.” He was suddenly unable to do much of anything else. “This thing hauled most of my heroin over the border in ‘08!”

“And a pair of screaming infants?”

He put it in Drive as he mumbled, “To keep up appearances... Look, I got it cheap when my guy retired. I used to own a Bentley Speed Six!”

Sounded like he was trying to make an impression. “What happened to it?”

“It was a right-hand drive, and your government’s still pissed off about that whole Revolution incident. Would’ve been a bitch to import.”

He turned to the window, and looked longingly into the night. “Capitalism strikes again.”

No chuckle returned, and the silence was impenetrable. He lost himself in streetlamps and road signs. Also, apparently, fell asleep, because he startled awake to Crowley knocking on the passenger window. 

It was a nice restaurant- not  _ nice _ nice; he had his sleeves rolled up and tie flipped backwards (and nobody told him)- with a bar and live band that didn’t need to be that loud, but they were enjoying themselves. The table was too small, and they were always bumping each other's feet- Cas apologizing every few minutes, Crowley never did. They shared basic conversation: Cas’s job (not Crowley’s, not in public), education (Castiel with his useless English Associate’s, and Crowley halfway to a law degree when he realized he hated law), flooding in Thailand (shame, but what are they gonna do?), and the damn weather when they ran out of other topics (pleasantly warm, if not humid). He thought the food was fine, but barely appreciated it while stressing over what they were going to do with the check.

“You a Republican or Democrat?” asked Crowley, like someone with zero sense of what is acceptable first-date conversation.

“Independent voter.” Castiel replied, both truthfully and evasively.

“Democrat myself.”

“That’s fine.” he floundered. How do you respond to someone who openly talks about politics on the first date? More importantly:  _ Why is he on a date with a drug dealer? _

The check came and went, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“You done?”

“Yes please.”  _ Crap. _

They sit in silence the entire ride back to Cas’s apartment, Crowley pulls into the same spot he waited for him, and parked.  _ Oh God, what do I do? _ When faced with uncomfortable situations, Castiel removed himself from them. He tried the door handle, but the engine was still running, and the doors were still locked.  _ Which one of these buttons is the button!? _

Crowley, ignorant, put his elbow on the windowsill, and said, “That was horrendous.”

Removing his hand from the switch he had accidentally cracked the window with, he agreed, “I wasn’t going to mention it.”

“Quite frankly, this is the first time I’ve left the house this week. I have no idea what I’m doing.” It was Thursday.

“That makes two of us.”

“I do nothing but sling coke and watch World War II documentaries!” he huffed, tapping a button on the door. Cas heard his unlock. Crowley stared out the driver’s window, and it should worry a person when someone is  _ that _ interested in Hitler, but a saviour complex is a terrible thing...

“...I like documentaries.”

He turned slowly. “...You seen  _ Auschwitz: Inside the Nazi State? _ ”

“I don’t think so.” he replied, rolling up his window.

“It was this six-part series on BBC, think it was only in the UK, but I’ve got it on DVD.”

Cas glanced at the dashboard clock. “I have the time.”

Crowley put it in drive- and the doors locked as he did, but Cas didn’t mind now. “It’s about Auschwitz, obviously, has interviews from survivors and guards- which I like. No one wants to talk about the people who did it.”

“It’s easy to demonize something you don’t understand.”

“I think they’re the fascinating ones.”

As long as he meant  _ interesting _ and not  _ right _ , that was fine by Cas.  _ Dates are awkward.  _ he thought. _ Be awkward. _ “Can I turn the radio on?”

“I didn’t know what you liked.”

“Just about everything.” he said, and clicked the power button.  _ A Team _ came on. “Particularly this.”

“It’s about a crackwhore.”

He sat back, and let the lyrics roll over him. “That makes a lot of sense.”

They went quiet, but it wasn’t stifling with Ed Sheeran to comfort them.

Four hours later, he was waking up on Crowley’s couch, the thatched pattern of one of the pillows imprinted on his cheek and his phone grumbling from his pocket. It took him a couple of seconds to figure out which side the receiver was on. “Hello?”

_ “Yo, you fuckin’ ‘im?” _

“What? No.” he mumbled, sitting up. He found this oddly difficult, and discovered it was because Crowley’s shoulder was overlapping his to fit side-by-side on the width of the sofa.

_ “Uh, then what  _ are _ you doing, ‘cuz you never called to give me deets.” _

He rubbed his squashed cheek. “What time is it?”

_ “Two, like we said. You home?” _

“No, no, I...” He shoved Crowley a couple times, who didn’t respond. “We fell asleep on his couch.”

_ “Nice. You want me to pick you up? I’m sober ‘cuz they got free soft drinks for the designated- WORD TO MY BARTENDER!” _ A chorus of hoots went up on Gabe’s end of the line.

Drowsiness muddled his logic- and knowing this, he deferred to his brother. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks. Just let me tell Crowley.”

“I’m here, I’m listening.” the man responded, though didn’t open his eyes. Hey, if Cas were where he lived, he wouldn’t bother, either.

“My brother’s picking me up.”

“Have a nice trip.” he mumbled back.

Cas rolled his eyes. “I’ll leave a note.”

_ “Write it on a dollar bill, dealers only listen to money.” _

“Shouldn’t you be leaving?”

_ “Okay,  _ mom,  _ I’m going. Text me the address.” _ Then, in the space between when he says he’s going to do something and actually does it, Gabriel shouted,  _ “KISS ME, LADIES!” _

Castiel hung up. He stepped outside for the house number, typed it out, and when it was all he could find, thanked Crowley for the evening in an Expo marker on the back of his hand. He folded the arm back over his stomach, and let him sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

They’re simple men. The two of them were content with chinese food and _Whose Line is it Anyway?_ reruns, leaning against each other on the creaking couch, Castiel laughing like he was high (even when he wasn’t) and Crowley pretending he wasn’t laughing (until he was high).

Cas bought an Ed Sheeran CD because he saw it in the store, and it had _A Team_ which he’d come to think of as their song- like they were teenagers who thought it was about falling in love, and not addiction. But they knew. Cas still loved that song.

When _Whose Line_ turned into _Seinfeld_ and the TV timed off, Cas put that CD on and followed Crowley’s lead of falling asleep.

It’s scientifically proven that sleeping next to someone has loads of health benefits: falling asleep faster, reductions in anxiety- and oxytocin, of course. Maybe if Cas had known that back then, that it was just the chemicals, and nothing destined... He doesn’t know. It was nice while it lasted.

But, you know. So was Nazi Germany.

Cas yawned, and pulled one of Crowley’s arms around his middle. He felt a puff of air on the back of his neck as he pulled him closer, and Cas smiled to himself.

Ed Sheeran somehow spoke faster than Castiel could comprehend (and he was sober by that point of the evening) but still be calming. Really, quite talented.

He definitely said “kiss” though. Twice.

Cas pretended not to notice. It got him thinking, though: they’d been seeing each other for, oh, couple weeks? They didn’t talk much; didn’t have much to say. It was nice to just... have the company. Not sleep alone, maybe, even if it was only half the night before Crowley was clumsily freeing himself from the spooning with one limb numb and stumbling half-asleep to his own bed, and Cas was gone not a few minutes later, before he could think too hard about joining him.

Cas was happy with their casually compassionate relationship; he could just do with a little more intimacy. He could always do with more intimacy.

Castiel twisted around, face close to Crowley’s, but he’d never been good with personal space, and nothing bothered Crowley. Well, except business. He was flexing the fist supporting his head, arm must have been asleep. Surprised he wasn’t complaining about it. Lines on his forehead, and one printed deep between his eyebrows.

Dating is awkward. Cas was also awkward. “This would be a great album to makeout to.”

But, again, nothing bothered Crowley. He blinked, wet his lips, and got a little closer. “Why didn’t you say so?”

And they kissed, and the couch didn’t seem so small anymore. Eyes closed, Cas’s hand warming under Crowley’s shirt, and Crowley’s at the back of his neck as he tried to get the feeling back, he’d bet neither of them thought about a single thing. No deadlines, no expectations, and nowhere to be. Couldn’t ask for more than that.

 _UNI_ became _Grade 8,_ and with neither of them bothering with brains, the tempo change took them with it. Tongues got involved. Hands weren’t the only things warming up. Crowley gripped him at the thigh, and Cas put it up by his hip. No thinking. He could always do with more intimacy.

A knock came to the door. Castiel pulled back, listened for another (doesn’t know why that’s his first response, but it is) while Crowley tried to get a view of the unlit analog clock across the room before shouting, “I told you eleven!”

“It’s eleven forty!” the man outside the door rebuttled. Castiel wrestled his Nokia from the pocket currently pressed into the couch, and found him to be correct.

Groaning the whole way, Crowley sat up. Cas reluctantly scrunched up to let him. “You may want to clear out. That’s my coke guy.”

He was dating a drug dealer. “Is that supposed to bother me?”

Crowley looked at him, like it really was supposed to bother him, and he’d never considered how an alternate response would make him feel. He deepened that line between his eyebrows. “Cain’s pretty private. He doesn’t appreciate customers hanging about.”

Customer. Right.

“Right.” Castiel agreed, wishing away his half-chub. Maybe if he dodged out fast enough, the supplier wouldn’t notice.

Crowley opened the door, and the man outside filled the space immediately. Castiel had no choice but to back out of the way as “Cain” moseyed in, and only had to glance out the door to find a BMW coupe parked behind him. Lowly, he conveyed, “I’m blocked in.”

“Who’s your friend?” the supplier asked, observing takeout containers on the coffee table.

Crowley, ignoring him for the moment, whispered, “Stick around and he’ll pull in the garage.” Then, turning, “Just a junkie, darling. What have you got for me?”

The man looked over his shoulder, and he didn’t seem all that scary. Like an outdoorsy dad, who never forgot the navy. “You having dinner with junkies, now?” It wasn’t accusatory, though. Cain seemed genuinely curious.

Cas wasn’t about to speak; Crowley’s only response was a narrowing of the eyes- which Cain didn’t notice until he finally freed Castiel from his gaze, and turned to Crowley. “Same poundage, same price as we discussed.”

“And the quality?”

“You’ll have to see for yourself.” He looked at Castiel again. “...Really, who’s this?”

Crowley smacked him backhanded on the bicep. “What, never met a potsmoker before? Bring the car in. I haven’t got all night.”

“Of course, of course. I get up early.” He smiled kindly, and when they brushed on the way to their vehicles, Cas walking quickly and Cain not letting him get away so easily, the coke slinger patted him on the shoulder.

Castiel got in his car, locked the doors, and made it to the stop sign at the end of the street before he put his seatbelt on. He stopped for a cup of peanut butter ice cream at UDF, because he deserved it after having a lovely date night interrupted by a drug dealer who non consensually touched him.

He was dating a drug dealer, though. It was what he’d signed up for. Castiel took a corner table in the brightly lit food-service side of the gas station, and watched cars whiz by outside.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Time flies. Cas has known this since he graduated college and thought, _Wait, I’m not ready to be an adult_ \- but nothing reminded him of it like his time with Crowley. He gets there at nine, and then it’s four in the morning and he’s got a crick in his neck he has to drive home with. Charlie moves in the end of summer, and then Crowley’s curing his marijuana harvest in the spare room. He’s sleeping on Crowley’s sofa because he’s too lazy to go home, and then he’s sleeping on Crowley’s sofa because it’s the closest thing he’s got to a home.

There was a new Holocaust documentary on the History Channel, and Cas knew better than to talk any time but the break. Anthony Sullivan commercials were never the same after Billy Mays died.

Cas swallowed. “Would you mind if I crashed here tonight?”

“Have I ever?”

“I didn’t know if you had...” Drug deals. “Engagements.”

Apparently, he was not sly. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Cas bumped his shoulder to Crowley’s, but without any push back, he just leaned against him. “You sling heroin, people nod on your couch. Comes with the territory. Nobody’ll give you a second glance.”

“What if someone else needs your couch?”

“They’ll have to fight you for it.”

“And tomorrow?” he stretched.

“Love, you stay as long as you like.”

“For that, I’m thankful.” he expressed. “...I was evicted.”

Talking sharks and Snickers, unfortunately, were not enough to hold Crowley’s attention. “You what?”

He shrugged, had accepted it by that point- embraced the end of eviction notices and massive hit to his credit score. It couldn’t get much worse than it was. “I’m still paying off student loans for a minimum wage job. Some things just... didn’t make it.”

“Like housing?”

“Like making a choice between food, gas, and the little things in life that keep me bothering with it all,” he reached for a rolling paper, then, and Crowley took it for him, “or rent. Rent lost.”

“You may have to fight Al for the couch, but my illegal money’s on you. Old prick’s too doped up to give you much trouble, anyway.”

There was already weed on the table from the first joint they (Crowley) rolled and (Castiel) smoked, a couple hours ago. Six hours. Whatever. Cas would have smoked just to watch Crowley roll, glimpse his tongue poke out and admire it like a fetishist, just to hear that classic Zippo clink. Cas lit his cigarette, blew the smoke over his shoulder, though he doubted it would bother Crowley. Crowley watched him with sleepy eyes, and slowly slipped the lighter away. He couldn’t have been too tired, because he got off the couch real quick, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Only out of eyeshot did he mention, “Pot’s almost done curing.”

“Oh yeah?”

He heard a pill bottle open, contents pour out. “Good harvest, this year. Good weather for it.” Listening closely, the faucet went on, and off. “Few more days and I’ll have my guest room back.”

Cas held a casual comment about looking forward to the cannabis. Odd time to bring it up.

“Not like I’m doing much with it, save one week a year.”

The kitchen went quiet. Cas took a drag. “Are you asking me to move in?”

Crowley rounded the corner, leaned just beside the doorway. “Are you saying yes?”

Middle-aged drug dealer in a full black fucking suit at ten pm, leaning imperiously against the wall, looked a little nervous in the way he rubbed the pill pinched in his hand. Cas blinked, considerately. “Yes.”

He pushed off the wall, aloof, but there was a little more swagger in his step than there was before. “‘Bout bloody time,” he mumbled, popping the pill in his mouth and speaking while he chewed, “you’re here most of the time, anyway. It’s just logistical.”

“Oh, of course.” Castiel exaggerated as the dealer flopped down next to him, washing it down with water from a whiskey tumbler.

“Hush now, show’s on.” He set the glass aside, and Castiel choked on smoke holding back a laugh. Crowley elbowed him. “Quit it, I’m trying to watch!”

For some reason, that seemed hilarious to Castiel, who began to cackle in earnest.

“I can’t hear the damn programme!” Even as he complained, a smile started to split his face, and the whistle of his perforated septum gave him away.

The television was talking about Auschwitz-Birkenau, but the two of them couldn’t stop laughing.


	4. Chapter 4

Looking back, there are no walks through the woods, favourite restaurants, or weekend trips to Cave City, Coney Island, Columbus. They had late nights with no words exchanged, sleepy days that passed in a haze of smoke: they have those documentaries, that CD, that couch ( _ — that couch  _ the police took for evidence, and never smelled the same when he got it back _ —  _ ). They had each other, and that was all they needed.

Ed Sheeran should have paid them for promotion, they played that album so much. Cas thought  _ The A Team _ sounded like snow, and they had plenty of that. Crowley thought the stereo should have broken by then, had it any mercy. They cuddled close to keep warm. And, make kissing easier. There was plenty of that, too.

Castiel had one girlfriend in high school that he never kissed, whose reputation was ruined when he came out— but was salvaged by Gabriel’s vouching, likeability... and lechery. Cas had a number of flings better suited to his preferences in college— but,  _ college _ . From then on, he’d been working in food service, and instantly hated everyone he met. Never before had he been able to just lay near someone, for hours, kissing.

He was not prepared for flagrant arousal.

When Crowley lifted his hips to shift them down a little, Castiel couldn’t help but push back. The dealer chuckled, and bit his partner’s lip, infuriatingly. Then they were tongues, and hands, and Castiel was pausing a lick at his ear to whisper, “Can we?”

Quiet, stretched painfully. Ed Sheeran drew a breath for  _ The Parting Glass. _

“... Maybe later.”

Later, they fell asleep watching  _ Friends, _ and they woke the next morning, still entangled, with sore joints and bad breath, and they couldn’t have been happier.

Castiel’s not allowed to work the toaster since he nearly set the curtains on fire, and Crowley couldn’t flip an omelette without turning it into scrambled eggs, so they worked the other way around, and— “God, we’re so domestic.”

Crowley looked up from where he was buttering the unburnt toast, smirked with sleep in his eyes. When no joke returned, Castiel realized he didn’t mind it so much, either. Cas grew up in foster homes with no consistency but his brother (and Gabriel is not a man to be called “consistent”) but he found himself surprised that the normalcy wasn’t stifling. Comforting, really.

“Where am I?”

Even if it was found with a drug dealer and heroin addict asleep on their couch. Crowley smiled, unrolling his sleeves, like dressing for work. “My place, love.”

Meg blinked, and grinned her recognition. “Oh, hey, Crowls...” She seemed shocked to find another person beside him, despite the fact she’d hit on him repeatedly the night prior. “Did either of you take advantage of me while I was out?”

“No.” Castiel replied firmly.

The small-time slinger (really just selling to a couple friends to support her own habit) pouted. “Dammit.” 

“Sleep well, darling?” Crowley mocked with minimal vitriol.

“Well, it’s tomorrow. Must be good stuff if I nodded for that long.”

“Always is.”

She rested her head on the doorway, eyes falling closed again. “Four grams?”

He stepped out of the way as Cas served the omelettes, and looked at her witheringly. “I don’t get out of bed for less than five.”

“Good thing you’re already up.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, and when they fell back into place, saw the hundred-dollar bill being waved his general direction. He frowned, and snatched it as he passed, on the way to the living room. 

Cas didn’t mind. Really; it was his job— Meg had told him all about  _ that _ the night prior, in the form of a rant, while Castiel and Crowley exchanged unnoticed funny faces and mimed suicide.

He brought the plates around, one in his palm and one balanced on his forearm, two cups held by the bottom in his other hand— the only skill he got out of his stupid job. Crowley nearly ran into him (and  _ that _ would have been unfortunate) and smiled apologetically as he took a drink in each hand, freeing Cas to move the plate from his forearm and place them both on the coffee table.

They had a dining table, but it was covered in drug paraphernalia.

Meg reached for a piece of toast, and Crowley smacked her hand. “Go!” he ordered, pointing to the door. Meg scoffed, and flipped her hair before showing herself out.

The door slammed, but over the morning news no one paid attention to, his breakfast, and his phone, Crowley didn’t seem to notice.

“Sleep well?” Cas cast.

“Hm?” Crowley startled, looking over at him for a blink. “Oh, yeah. You?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

Castiel ate his omelette; Crowley’s went cold as he texted a client. He scooted a little closer, casually, and the dealer angled his foot so their toes touched. Castiel allowed the news anchor to lecture him.

“Do you really think they’ll shut down the government?” he asked a man who only knew current events from the ramblings of addicts.

Setting the phone down (halfway to slamming, really), he took up a cold forkful and said, “We can only hope.”

He got maybe two bites in before the screen lit up, and it was back to the grindstone. Crowley growled at the message, smacked the phone face-down, and took his anger out on the toast.

Cas cut a strip from his omelette, thinking of Meg. “Another addict?”

“I wish.” It took him a second to realize that for who he was speaking to, that wasn’t considered a complete answer. He set his fork down. “So I told you someone got busted. Bastard narced, the Colombians aren’t even talking to my broker right now, and no one in the entire Midwest seems to be able to get their hands on heroin at a higher purity than black tar!”

Cas took a bite of his omelette. “I thought you were having trouble procuring cocaine?”

“Yeah, same broker. How many Ohians do you think have connections to the Colombian cartel?”

“Ohioans.”

“Whatever.”

“Is Cain having problems?”

“Oh, no. He’s buying from the Peruvians. It’s nowhere near as pure as I used to get, but it’s not laced with levamisole, and that’s hard to come by these days.”

A local commercial screamed for their attention. They ignored it. “Levamisole?”

“Cow dewormer.”

He squinted. In all honesty, he’d heard of weirder things in cocaine. 

Crowley poked at his cold breakfast. “It makes the high better, I’ll give them that. Also rots the skin off. What’s really the mess is that it’s being spiked by the same people that make it. This isn’t Florida, I’m not hooking people on krokodil and bath salts!” he huffed, admitting defeat against the eggs. Castiel stacked the dealer’s plate on his empty one; he could Ziploc what was left for tomorrow. “I don’t like Cain, but I can work with him.”

He collected the plates, stood to deliver them, questioning, “Why don’t you like Cain?”

Crowley took up his phone, raising his voice to continue the conversation around corners. “Calls himself  _ Cain _ , first off. No creativity, no style. I know his kids! I knew them before I knew him.”

“Is that so?” Castiel prompted, as he deposited the leftovers in the fridge.

“Believe it, darling. Charlie brought one of the brats over because he kept hounding her about wanting to sell. Scared the ambition right out of him. I made sure he felt absolutely out of his league, and never heard from him again— but I remembered, while he was still trying to convince me he was more than an egotistical child, he said his father was, and I quote, “Big in the yayo biz,” unquote. So I tracked him down, told him to keep a better eye on his kid, and he’s liked me ever since.”

_ He didn’t seem to like me very much, _ Cas thought, pre-soaking the dishes. Thankfully, he didn’t have to ask.

“He’s a good man. Moral, and all that. Just trying to provide for his kids, since he can’t fly with that aneurysm.”

Castiel filled a cup from the sink, took his One-A-Day. “You’re being particularly forthcoming.”

A pause. “Meg got me thinking...” This is about the time Castiel would have returned to the living room, were he not so sure this discussion would be easier with some distance. “You live here. My place of business, your home. There’s no keeping them separate.”

Glancing at a bottle of OxyContin on the counter, “Were you trying?”

Barely audible through the wall, he replied, “You have no idea…”

That was enough space. He took his place on the sofa, handed his partner a glass of water— and a grey pill. Crowley smiled, and accepted.

He slumped into the cushions, admitting, “… I’m going to have to call Bela.”

“I don’t believe I’ve heard that name before.”

“I haven’t spoken to her in years. I was hoping to keep it that way… But, if anyone on this earth can get me good heroin, it’s Bela.”

He nodded, uninflected, but in his head, he decided he deserved ice cream tonight.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Bela was not only the most attractive woman a gay man has ever seen, and one of those touchy-feely Europeans that kisses each cheek and employs pet names with way more intention than the average Brit, but charismatic enough to shoot down each of Crowley’s attempts to put her off.

“We also dated for a spell,” Crowley mentioned while she waved at them from across the food court. Cas might be upset, if he hadn’t mouthed  _ Kill me _ while she hugged him.

“Fergus, dear, however have you managed without me!” she sniped through a vicious smile.

Crowley was smiling right back, like a couple of dogs baring their teeth. “I’ve done alright, love.”

“Really?” Bela went on conversationally, without a flicker across her face as her eyes fell to Castiel. “Who’s this?”

“Castiel,” he spoke for himself. In the midst of all the backstabbing and mimicry of friendship, Cas wanted to make it clear he didn’t like her.

Bela didn’t falter, and still dragged him into a hug. “Oh, I’ve heard so much about you!” Then, quieter, “You’re so in over your head.”

She pulled back, smiled like shark’s teeth, every one of them replaceable. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m simply starved. Chipotle, anyone?”

High heels stalked off without waiting for response, and two men looked to each other for solidarity. “Now you understand,” Crowley grimaced, before reaffixing his lawyer’s confidence and trailing after her.


End file.
